The Fairground
by KnuckleFantasy
Summary: Young!Sherlock. When something wrong happens, it's always because of Mycroft.


**Hu, hello there! So, this is the second One shot about Sherlock's universe I write, hope it's not too bad. All thank go to TheFrenchBookWorm, she's the one who beta-read this text, I'm really grateful to her! (and you should read her fic, she's an amazing writer!) **

**So, of course none of the characters belong to me, I think you all know the chorus now. Have a good time!**

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Mycroft was being noisy again, and it irritated Sherlock. How was he supposed to think properly with his brother's constant complaining? He'd been asking for permission to skip one of his private lessons to go to the fairground that had arrived in town last Saturday for a week now. The attractions seemed to appeal to everybody – Mycroft included.

However, Sherlock's perception of the event was different. To him, it was just a waste of time and money. But he would be truly happy if the older of the Holmes sons was given permission to go so that peace could come back to the household.

Another of his brother's fake cries was heard and this time, it was too much. Mycroft was supposed to be seven years older than him, yet he acted like a baby sometimes. Grumbling, Sherlock left his room and ran to the living room to face his mum and his brother.

"Mummy, can't you let him go to this useless event now? I can't concentrate with him near me!" the eleven-year-old Holmes said, scowling at the Lady of the family with annoyance.

The blond-haired woman looked pretty tired, probably because of her capricious sons.

"Sherlock, not you too!" she moaned. "Thank God the fairground only passes through once a year!"

"So, can I go mother?" asked Mycroft, his eyes full of hope.

"Yes, can he go?" added the younger boy.

Looking at her two not-so-little babies, Mrs Holmes smiled, and said, "Alright little monsters, I accept. But on one condition! Mycroft dear, take your brother with you. It's sunny outside, and a little fresh air would be great for too Sherlock. And no complaining!"

The request proved useless since the boys complained for a solid ten minutes before realising that their mother was losing her calm. It was with a dejected sigh that the siblings took their leave.

The car-ride was spent in silence, despite the boys' hostile glares as they sat side by side.

Sherlock's head was anything but quiet; it was full of children screaming and fake guns shooting. The awful sounds were mixed with mental snapshots of amusement-rides and people selling doughnuts and other fattening foods. He clenched his fists, trying to not feel any anger against his mother for forcing him into this situation. The only time he had ever been to a fairground was when he was five – And it wasn't a good memory at all. And to be honest, he had hoped he would never have to suffer through the ordeal again. It was noisy. Suffocating. People ran and screamed without trying to avoid children.

It was stupid, Sherlock reasoned. There was no reason to fear the situation. He was old enough to avoid those people now. And it wasn't like he had to stay with his brother – He could wait for him at the entrance, observing everything and everybody. He had no reason to fear the fairground.

Yet, he realised his hand were shaking slightly, and the memories came crashing back again.

_It happened six years ago, on a day as cloudy as his father's mood. For the first time in years, the Homes family had been out together, and it would have been a happy day if Mycroft hadn't gotten into trouble with another boy from school the day before. Because of him, the day was ruined. Even though they were at a fairground, nobody was smiling, and young Sherlock, age five, had decided to wander off on his own when his parents weren't looking._

_He was already frightfully curious at that time, and not impressed at all by the screams rising from the ghost house. The only thing that had bothered him was the music from all the rides. It was too loud for his ears and he found it a bit painful._

_And then, it happened; a flash lightened the dark sky and people panicked, running everywhere. It is a known fact that a mob can be dangerous when agitated. Looking for his family, Sherlock began to panic as a man accidently crashed into him. He fell, hitting the ground and letting out a moan of pain, but nobody saw him in all the commotion. Someone walked on his left hand and this time, the young boy let out a heartbreaking cry, shouting his mother's and brother's names._

_"Sherlock!" _

_He felt strong arms around him, and he was suddenly in his mother's embrace. She was crying and kissing him violently._

_"Oh my god, my little baby I was so scarred! Where were you, why didn't you follow us?!"_

_His name was called again and his brother joined the embrace, his body shaking and pale as a corpse. Standing behind his family was his dad, as cold as a statue. At that time, Sherlock remembered he thought that the man hated him._

Since that day, the subject of bringing Sherlock to the fair was avoided every year, until now. And it was all Mycroft's fault.

The car stopped, and it was time to go. Sherlock wasn't five anymore. He wasn't scared and wasn't going to run away. No, he just needed to stay at put during two long hours before going home. Realising his brother was already outside, he let out an upset _harrumph_ before opening the door. The second he did it, the noise hit him and his hands automatically jumped to his ears.

All around him, people were shouting, running, smiling. The mix of scenes, sounds and colours made him dizzy. He hated this place. But he had to stay, to observe. Sherlock might not be very old, but the world and its mechanism was already the source of all his attention and experiments. And the fairground was a place full of subjects to work on.

Sitting in a corner next to a cart selling food, only his eyes and his mouth were moving. It was a strange thing he did when he was thinking, speaking to himself in a quiet voice. It seemed to frighten his teachers, and so he controlled it most of the time, but nobody would see him here, so he didn't need to contain himself.

A half-hour passed before he finally got bored. Not that observing wasn't interesting – but he needed more. Why people were so scared of the hunted house was one of the questions he had in mind. Because of false ghosts? Or plastic spiders maybe?

Standing up, his decision was made: He had to go and investigate. The entrance fee wasn't too expensive, which was lucky because he hadn't taken so much money with him. He paused in front of a door that looked like it had been splattered with ketchup. How was it supposed to look like blood?

Sherlock did not pay any attention to the horrified screams coming from inside. Jutting his chin up, he entered the house, disappearing in a dark room.

_How disappointing_. After three minutes in the building, it was with an annoyed expression that Sherlock gave up. He wasn't terrified at all. Why would he be? Everything looked just so exaggerated. He wondered if it was some kind of joke that people were actually scared by all that nonsense.

He had just decided to return to the spot where he'd been sitting before and wait for his brother when a hand caught his shoulder. His body tensed instantly. By the force used to restrain him, he was sure it was a man – but the intention didn't seem bad.

He turned to meet a worried face. Sherlock had seen enough military members in his life to recognise a soldier, even if he wasn't wearing his uniform. Frowning, he wondered what the man wanted.

"Sorry if I scarred you kid, but I'm looking for my son and I though you might have seen him? Around your height, with short blond hair and a military jacket. Any ideas?"

The man's voice was deep, but his panic was making it higher, Sherlock realised. Thinking, he tried to recall if the description of the boy was familiar. _It was_.

"Yes. Two minutes ago he was watching a rifle shooting contest at the shooting range next to the haunted house."

"Gosh, that little... Thanks a lot, boy!" The man waved at him before running off to find his son.

Sherlock realised it was nearly time to go home. Good.

But just when he was about to leave the fairground and wait for his brother next to the car, an attraction caught his gaze. Judging by the way people were huddled around it, Sherlock guessed it was one of the most popular. It consisted of four mechanic arms with carriages attached, and it was rotating in a fast circle, rising higher and higher with each spin. People in the carriages were screaming and raising their hands, shouting for more.

Why did spinning this way make them so happy? They were really dumb, Sherlock thought.

Yet, he found himself buying a ticket and sitting alone in a green cart. Sitting opposite him were the man from before and his son. The father smiled at him. Sherlock politely bow his head.

Suddenly, an alarm rang out, hurting his ears, and the spinning began. At first, nothing special happened. But as the ride went faster, the strangest feeling occurred in the boy's chest – and when the mechanical arms finally rose in the air, it finally escaped him. First it was only a little yell of surprised, but then, Sherlock began to laugh. Butterflies were fluttering in his stomach and he was balanced at every side of the cart, his body hitting against the back of his seat – But the joy he felt erased all of his preoccupations.

For five whole minutes, Sherlock was smiling, his eyes crying a little due to the wind. For once, he acted like a child of his age, only relishing in the fun he was having, and not trying to analyse everything he saw. His own laughter mingled with those of the family in front of him.

But all good things come to an end, and the ride eventually stopped, letting him catch his breath. His fingers were aching and red because of the coldness of the air, but Sherlock felt relaxed. He wasn't scared of the fairground anymore. And it wasn't a lie this time.

"Sherlock!"

Raising his head, he saw his brother waving at him, a bag full of fatty food in his arms. The military man and his son were standing nearby. The boy waved at him with a shy smile. His dad must have told him that Sherlock was the one who helped him. The thought of helping someone was strange, but it wasn't making him uncomfortable either and it was with a much better mood than the one he had arrived in that Sherlock finally left the fairground.

Maybe he would come back here, one day. After all, he still had a lot of subjects to observe and deductions to make. He was only eleven – He must have missed a lot of important things, and felt pretty frustrated about it. Yes, he would definitely come back one day.

But for now, there were some yummy doughnuts he had to steal from his annoying brother...

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**So, how was it? I hope you enjoyed reading it, and don't hesitate to leave a review so I can improve my writing skills! Have a good day!**


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